Understated
by Clayair
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up in the body of an eight year old, it will test the friendship, creativity, and patience of both the consulting detective and his faithful flatmate John Watson. They have much to learn about one another... if they can refrain from strangling each other first.


**Understated**

**Chapter 1**

John Watson had a fairly substantial list of rude awakenings that had occurred over his lifetime. Along with the common fire alarm and passing ambulance that nearly everyone will encounter, he could contribute his sister returning home drunk, as well as roommates pleasuring themselves. Afghanistan was the cause of the majority of his recent wake-ups; more often than not he'd gasp awake in cold sweat with the shouts of his comrades and a pang in his shoulder. Once he'd moved into 221B Baker Street, however, his alarm clock had developed modes such as "Sherlock Firing a Gun out of Boredom" or "John Wake Up There's Been a Murder." It was a wonder the man wasn't crankier, there practically wasn't even a 'right side of the bed' to wake up on anymore.

The retired army doctor was in the middle of a rare pleasant dream of visiting the surrey when a piercing wail tore it like paper. John's eyes shot open and he groaned. Sitting up in bed and rubbing his sore shoulder, he could hear the sound of panicked footsteps and furniture being knocked around. His toes hit the winter-cold floorboards and he flinched, but lowered the rest of his feet to the ground with the intention of asking Mrs. Hudson about the commotion. Surely there was a new tenant with a fussy child, and that was the source of this infernal racket.

Leisurely making his way down the stairs, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned, only to freeze when a loud _thunk_ issued from Sherlock's room. Had the man finally collapsed with exhaustion? It had happened before: Sherlock Holmes rarely slept during the course of a case. The most recent being a triple-homicide, the consulting detective probably hadn't gotten more than four hours of rest in as many days. John padded sleepily up to the bedroom door and knocked.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? Haven't tripped over a sheet or something, have you?" he called warily. The man was a nightmare when he was annoyed, and John wasn't in the mood to prod sleeping bears.

When no response came from inside, John began to worry that the man had fallen and cracked his bloody head. "Sherlock?" After several seconds of silence, he carefully turned the brass knob and opened the door.

He was immediately assaulted by a small boy. The child slammed into him with the force of Harry's Irish Setter, almost knocking him to the ground. He let out an _oof!_ of surprise exhibited some of his military training by pushing the boy back, twisting him around, and yanking his arm into a hold.

"Ow ow ow! John that hurts!" the boy squealed.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my flat?" John asked in a low tone, then he furrowed his brow, "Wait, how do you know my name?"

The boy lifted a bare foot to kick him in the shin, to little effect. "Honestly John, you really are an imbecile! Why on earth would I not be in my own flat—but that's not the issue here!"

John was utterly perplexed and quite a bit surprised. He looked at the boy he had in his grip. Large, teal eyes stared unwavering into his own, and a mop of dark curls framed them. The boy had a face far too stern for one his age; he had prominent cheekbones, pale skin, and thin if not boney limbs. He was wearing pajamas considerably larger than necessary, and John realized with a jolt that they were Sherlock's.

"John Watson you blithering idiot it's _me!_"

There were plenty of reactions appropriate for the situation in front of him, but John's was most unexpected. He laughed. He laughed until his stomach hurt and he relinquished his hold on the boy who claimed to be Sherlock's wrist. He laughed until he was gasping for breath and doubled over and his eyes watered.

Sherlock first stared and then glared at his flatmate. "Stop laughing, John! This is serious!" He put his hands on his tiny hips but that only fueled John's giggling.

"Remind me…" John began, catching his breath, "Not to… drink before bed. This is probably the weirdest dream I've ever had," he was interrupted with a loud snort and broke out into hysterics again.

That is, until Sherlock kicked him in the stomach.

"Still think this is a dream?" he said angrily, then proceeded to follow up his kick with a slap across the face that left John reeling. He lifted his hand up to the red mark the boy's small hand had brought forth; it felt plenty real.

As John sat stunned with a blank expression, Sherlock began to pace back and forth, his robe dragging along the floor like a wedding train. The behavior was definitely Sherlock-esque, and the boy muttered in a most familiar manner. He suddenly veered off course and right up into John's face with his usual lack of respect for personal space. "Do you have any idea how this could have happened? Anything peculiar occur last night, anyone strange hanging around the flat, did anyone put something in my coffee? John answer me!"

Startled out of his trance, John met Sherlock's eyes. They swirled blue, grey and green, sparked with gold. Oh God, this really _was_ Sherlock.

"John!"

"I have no idea, Sherlock," he said shakily. "Magic?"

Sherlock hissed and turned away, waving his arms. "There is no such thing as magic! There is only science and logic and _reason!_ If you want me to believe that some… pixie" he spat the word with venom inappropriate for one his size, "came into my room last night and shrunk me down to a… to a _ten-year old_… you had better get a brain scan almost immediately."

His attention having shifted to the high pitch of Sherlock's typically deep voice, John snapped back to the problem. "No, I just… bloody hell!" He kneaded his forehead to dissuade a building headache and took some deep breaths. "I really don't know what to suggest, Sherlock. You're supposed to be the superior mind, remember?"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" Sherlock threw up his arms in frustration and kicked a pillow across the room knocking over a lamp. "I don't _know_, John! This… this is…" he gestured at his childlike form then his voice began to waver. "John, I…." John sat dumbstruck. To see Sherlock so completely overwhelmed and vulnerable was such a blow to his reality that he found himself incapable of forming a single constructive thought. In front of him was a boy no older than eight with a tortured expression and shaking shoulders—but it was also Sherlock. The brilliant, cynical, strong man that John had come to know over the past year. As his mind struggled to connect the two, Sherlock was suffering.

Suddenly his mind sharpened, and he snatched up Sherlock's hand. Oh God, it was so _tiny_. Huge eyes snapped up and locked on to his face, and John was shocked to see a desperate need behind them. With the most soothing voice he could muster, he told him "Look, we just need to calm down. There's no way you can think when we're both hollering and running around like frightened geese. I say we sit down in the kitchen with a nice cuppa and lower our heart rates before I faint. Sound like a good idea?" Sherlock nodded slowly, some of his curls bobbing with the motion.

Without relinquishing Sherlock's hand, John turned and started through the door, only to jolt to a halt when his flatmate tripped over his own trailing pajama pant legs. After lifting the embarrassed detective to his feet, he said "How about we get you some smaller clothes first?"

Though all he got was a scowl in return, John tromped back up the stairs with a promise to be back soon, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

They were toiling, swirling thoughts. They spun like a tempest through his head, rushing through the hallways of his mind palace attempting to drag together one of his famous deductions. Think, think, think, think, _think!_ He grasped at every explanation, tossing them all aside in disgust. He wrenched open every mental file cabinet, scattering sheets of memory across the floor. Names of chemicals and diseases and disorders scrolled across his vision like a river of words. He refused to admit that for the first time he may have no logical reasoning for the situation at all: that he'd be left blank. No no no no no, Sherlock could not—_would_ not accept that.

His brooding was interrupted as John reentered the room with some clothes slung over his forearm. He handed the bundle to Sherlock. "They're mine, so they will probably still be a little big, but I'm still much shorter than you so—"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, inspecting the beige sweater John had lent him. He sniffed the fuzzy fabric and immediately knew John's hygiene habits and where he had been last time he wore it. There was also an underlying scent of just 'John' that reminded him of fresh pine furniture. "This will do nicely."

John smiled, "I'll go heat up the kettle while you get changed," he said, then turned and closed the door with a soft _click_. For tangible moments he simply stood there: back to the door of Sherlock's bedroom. This whole morning was just so impossible, so unbelievable, that he found himself wracking his brain for orders to follow. Tea. Right. The kettle.

Dazed, he strode into the cluttered kitchen, for once not bothering to be annoyed at the jumble of experiments that lived on the table. John filled the kettle and set it on the stove. Looking at the window but not seeing it. Somehow, Sherlock was younger. Though he appeared to still have his adult mind, his body had digressed to the size of a small boy. John rubbed his temples and sighed. This was a whole new brand of crazy.

His own roaring thoughts drowned out the sound of the kettle hissing steam, and he jolted back out of his trance to pull it off the stove and turn down the dial. Not bothering to find a matching pair, he indiscriminately grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard and filled them with the boiling liquid. As he plopped in two bags of Earl Grey, he became aware of Sherlock standing behind him. He turned around slowly, so as not to upset the tea, and looked his flatmate over.

The sweater was fairly loose, and hung low on Sherlock's shoulders, threatening to slip down on either side. The sleeves were bunched up at the wrist and would no doubt fall another six inches if they weren't. Apparently John's pants had still been too long, for Sherlock had opted to just wear his shorts. Even so, they came almost to his knees. He looked incredibly ruffled and John decided that if this was a lasting problem, they might as well buy the man… boy… some proper clothes. Looking up through long eyelashes, he held out his hands for a mug.

John handed it to him gently. "Careful, it's quite hot."

A scowl twisted Sherlock's face. "John, though my appearance may suggest it, I am not a child, and I would very much appreciate it if you did not treat me like one." Nevertheless, as he defiantly took a sip, he burned his tongue and had to swallow the pain.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, John may have laughed at his prideful friend, but instead he just suppressed a smirk, and blew on his own cuppa.

The two stood in silence with their tea for long moments. John hadn't realized that he'd been staring until Sherlock spoke. "What are you looking at?" he demanded.

"Well, I'm just taller than you now."

Outrage flooded his face red, and he muttered darkly under his breath. Sherlock wandered over to one of the faded armchairs and sat down to sulk. He pulled his knees up to his chin and curled tiny toes over the edge of the cushion. John immediately regretted his seemingly harmless teasing, and came over to sit across from him. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock, he set his mug down on a stack of books. He searched Sherlock's expression, trying to find something to say; anything that might comfort him.

John took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry. I know this is… difficult," Sherlock snorted at such an obvious statement. "It's a bad habit of mine—making light of situations… though I can't say this is something I've encountered before." He reached out to rest his hand on the boy's shoulder, but thought better of it, knowing Sherlock wasn't fond of physical contact. Instead he just sat there, watching thoughts puzzle themselves out in glass eyes.

Sherlock gingerly raised his mug to his lips, and was surprised to find them quivering. He bit down hard to stop the motion, which only aggravated his burnt tongue. Tears welled in his eyes.

John must have taken them for tears of anguish and his eyes widened. "Sherlock, we can figure this out. I promise I won't stop until then. Okay? I'm here." Sherlock shook his head in dismissal.

"No, I'm okay, it's just… Wait. What did you just say?"

"Uhm, I'm here?"

Sherlock jumped up, his eyes so bright with their usual fire that John found himself extremely comforted by the sight. A smile spread across his face. "You _are _here! Yes! John you have once again displayed your ability to stimulate my genius," When his flatmate looked confused, he laughed. It sounded like ringing bells. "John, you are a doctor, and before anything else, we must gather data. I need to know every physical detail of this childlike body and then at least we will have somewhere to start."

Face flushing slightly, John looked down. "Sherlock, I was an army doctor, not a pediatrician."

Sherlock waved him off. "Doesn't matter, I just need a—what's it called—check-up. I need to know the health of my new body; it's _vital_, John." His eyes bored deep into Johns, knowing that the argument was 87 percent likely to end in his favor.


End file.
